


Scent

by unfolded73



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Episode: s06e18, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Oral Sex, Scent Kink, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 09:23:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10738803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unfolded73/pseuds/unfolded73
Summary: Inspired by “I wasn’t talking about the pancakes" in 6x18.





	Scent

**Author's Note:**

> Contains vague spoilers for the end of the series, but the kind of spoilers you can deduce from news articles about the finale. A couple of references to Killian with other partners in his past. Lots of references to the way women smell (and taste) during sex, so if that’s not your thing, you know. Be aware.

He can’t be blamed for it, not when she stands at the stove in their kitchen with her hair over one shoulder, the pale expanse of her neck exposed, a stark contrast to the black robe she wears. She protested his early morning advances, stomach rumbling and as she mumbled something about breakfast. After the day before, when once again they both feared they’d lost each other forever; when he went in a space of a few minutes from facing his death to facing his true love on his knees as he slid the ring onto her finger once again; when she went from losing her parents to a curse to being in their arms once again; when they finally, _finally_ rushed back to their home and joined their bodies together with so much joy that he thought it might kill him -- after a day like that, he can’t blame her for waking up a bit peckish. But then _she_ can’t blame _him_ for pouncing on her the moment he finds her downstairs in the kitchen.

The scent of her neck, of that spot just behind her ear, drives him mad. It is a swirling aroma of sweat and sex and her shampoo, a concentrated distillation of the redolence of Emma Swan, and it rarely fails to arouse him. He murmurs in her ear and feels her shiver against his chest, brushes his nose down her cheek and breathes her in. His cock rises to attention the moment her scent fills his nose, and he presses himself against her curves and smiles.

“I wasn’t talking about the pancakes.”

~*~

It was Cordelia, a prostitute he’d known in the Enchanted Forest, who once pontificated to him at length on the connection between scent and sex.

“Fuck buddies” was a term he would learn much later, tucked next to Emma on the sofa in their home, consuming one of the television programs she enjoyed watching on lazy Sunday afternoons. He supposed he and Cordelia might have been fuck buddies, save for the fact that coin changed hands between them. But he did see her while he was running errands for Pan with something approaching regularity, in the days long after he’d been left hollow and revenge-fueled by the loss of his first love, and at least a century before his entire world had been turned upside down by a blonde heroine who left him chained at the top of a beanstalk.

“Part of falling in love with someone,” Cordelia said, “is loving the way they smell.” She drew more of the smoke from the pipe she enjoyed into her lungs, holding it there for several seconds before letting it out in a hazy cloud toward the ceiling. 

Hook snorted. “What are you lecturing me about now?”

“Not lecturing. It’s just something I was thinking about the other day. You can’t love someone unless you love the way they smell. Maybe you can’t even be attracted to someone unless you love the way they smell, not really. It’s important, is what I’m saying. It made me wonder how much of love is just … matching one person’s nose with another person’s genitalia.”

He cracked an eye open. “Your mind is an odd place, love.”

“I know. You don’t think it’s important?”

He remembered pressing his nose between Milah’s breasts, inhaling deeply of her sweat and perfume, and squeezed his eyes shut. “Aye. You have the right of it.”

~*~

Neverland was becoming an arid shadow of its former self, not that he had time to do a thorough survey of the island in the midst of running from Lost Boys and shouting at Blackbeard and running again and being captured by Tiger Lily. But it was clear that Pan’s death had affected the island profoundly, its once lush jungles replaced with scrabbly, dying undergrowth. He didn’t care that much; it wasn’t like he had pleasant memories of this place.

With one notable exception, of course.

The loss of the jungle meant a profound change in the smell of the place, and he didn’t realize how much his memories of Neverland were colored by its verdant, earthy smell.

Emma had complained more than once as they’d hacked their way through the damp jungle about being sweaty and smelling bad, had talked with longing about taking a shower, unintentionally filling his head with lurid images of her, naked and wet. That aside, he thought she smelled divine; had to resist the desire to draw nearer to her as they searched Baelfire’s cave or sat together by the campfire, to draw breath close to her and drink in the lovely smell of her skin. He found her completely intoxicating, and the very fact of that twisted his stomach with a powerfully bittersweet sensation. He’d thought his blackened heart permanently numb to love. How terribly cruel that his heart would betray him like this, making him feel things for a woman so far above him in every possible way. A princess, a hero, a leader, a mother. What was _he_ in the face of that?

When she’d gripped his collar and hauled him close, assaulting him with her lips and tongue that first time, he’d struggled to get his brain to cooperate with his body, everything buzzing and frantic under his skin in those desperate moments. Almost as miraculous as the way she had tangled her tongue with his was the way she had lingered afterwards, her humid breath mingling with his as everything paused, liquid slowness and sensual, overwhelming desire hanging between them. Every panting inhale had filled him up with the heady scent of her, sharp sweat and feminine musk that had made his heart stutter in his chest, had made him weak with wanting her. Made his cock strain against the laces of his leather pants. Made him want to devour her.

~*~

She is sleeping now, her head nestled on his shoulder and her hand pressed against his chest. One leg is thrown over his, and if he’s honest he’s starting to get a little overheated with so many points of contact between their bare skin, but still he won’t dislodge her for any treasure in this land or any other.

He rubs his hand over his mouth and can still detect the scent of her sex on his fingers. The consummation of their marriage may have been delayed a bit, but when they were reunited, when the final battle was finally over, they certainly made up for lost time. He made her come twice, the first time with three fingers buried inside her and his mouth on her clit, her cries making him hard and desperate to fuck her. Then he made her come again with his cock buried inside, rocking into her from above, her legs wrapped around him as she keened and gasped and shattered around him.

Pressing his hand against his face, he shamelessly inhales the scent of her again. If he has his way, they will stay in this bed for two days, or maybe three, before even thinking about emerging to face the world again. Both of them have sacrificed so much, and now he just wants to enjoy his wife in peace. He glances over at their mobile phones, both of them turned off and silent. Emma only just prevented him from shoving them into the garbage disposal before they went to bed -- turning them off was a compromise.

He brings his hand down and threads his fingers with Emma’s where her hand still rests on his chest, their wedding rings shining in the dim moonlight from their bedroom window. 

~*~

Pain flared in his knee as it pressed into the wooden floor, an ache suffused his back as he bent over at an awkward angle, and he didn’t care one bit. He would stay this way all night if he had to.

He could hear the sound of her parents and that ice princess Elsa murmuring in the kitchen, but he had no idea what they were talking about. Tightening his arm around a shivering Emma once more, he pressed his lips to the top of her head. Despite the somewhat dire circumstances, he couldn’t help but revel in the fact that he’d had the opportunity to be this close to Emma for this long without her pulling away and putting some distance between them. And perhaps now she was only allowing it because of the necessity of his body heat, but honestly he wasn’t too proud to be grateful for it. Surely soon Emma would put an end to their dalliance for good, would realize how much better she could do than a recently reformed pirate, drifting about the town with no occupation, lacking even two hands with which to hold her. 

Feeling some meager warmth from the top of her head, he pressed his lips there again, letting the artificially floral scent of her shampoo fill his nose. He’d started to become used to the foreign scents of the soaps and shampoos and deodorants of this land, and this particular scent was already associated with Emma in his brain. He inhaled deeply.

When she’d come out of that ice wall, she’d been so, so cold; even her hair had been like icicles hanging around her face, and it had terrified him. But now her shivers were starting to ease, her shoulders relaxing a little bit with each minute that the warmth from the space heater washed over them. Any moment now, she would probably think better of their closeness, especially in the presence of her parents. But for now, she continued to let him cuddle her. He would take as much as he could get.

He breathed a hot breath out against her scalp, then inhaled again, committing every nuance of her scent to memory. 

~*~

“What are you doing?” he murmurs in the darkness of their bedroom. He can feel the tickling brush of her long hair against his chest, and he reaches down to cup the back of her head with his hand. 

Emma chuckles, a deep, smoky laugh that stirs renewed desire. Her nose drags through the hair on his chest, and she pauses to scrape her teeth against his nipple, coaxing a gasp from his mouth. “You’re my husband now; I can do what I like.”

“I’m fairly certain you could do what you liked before, love, much as I do appreciate that your possession of me, body and soul, is finally official.”

“And that we finally get to have a wedding night.”

“Aye.”

“Better late than never, I guess.” She is still nuzzling against his chest, one of her hands snaking its way down until she finds his cock at half-mast under the blankets. He is torn for a moment between the pull of sleep and the idea of having her again, but really it is no contest. Not when she is stroking him like she is, not when she seems to be drawing the scent of him into her nose, the way he so often does with her. 

~*~

“Killian,” she whined.

“Yes, Swan?” he pressed his question against her belly, his lips and tongue creating his art against her skin.

She writhed on his narrow bunk, the creak of the ship an accompaniment to their exercises. With a smirk, he scooted down further, half off the bed but not caring as he positioned her legs the way he wanted them.

“Ugh, I haven’t showered,” Emma said, twitching as he dragged his fingers lightly over her sex. “You probably don’t wanna put your mouth down there right now.”

“On the contrary, darling.” He leaned over and inhaled deeply, his nose buried between her thighs. Emma let out a gasping laugh. “You are like the sweetest ambrosia to me.” While he’d mostly adjusted to the bathing habits of this realm, and appreciated that its cities weren’t a miasma of human stench the way they were where he’d come from, he had to admit that Emma’s body was often a little too sterile for his liking. 

“You’re just full of poetry tonight, aren’t you?” she said. He thought again of his confession to her earlier in Gold’s cabin, that she was his happy ending, and smiled. 

“If I am a poet, it’s because you inspire me to such.” He turned, pressing a kiss to her inner thigh, dragging his nose along her skin. “Now, may I taste you, love?”

“Yeah, okay,” she said quickly.

He wasted no time, spreading her legs and opening his mouth wide, licking into her and bringing her essence into his mouth. She was spicy, an oceanic flavor on his tongue that he wasn’t sure he could ever get enough of. The smell and the taste of her, the slick, swollen flesh against his lips; by all the gods, he loved her and he loved _this_. 

He licked up, finding her clitoris and pressing down, swirling and dipping, bringing her up with every motion of his tongue. Her thighs were against his ears, but he could hear her cries perfectly well, knew the same thought had occurred to her that occurred to him, that on his ship they could finally be as loud as they wanted to be. She started to move her hips in little circles, and he matched her rhythm because he knew the signs now, had memorized them with careful attention the first few times that he’d done this so that he now considered himself an expert in getting Emma Swan to come. Not that it wasn’t a subject worthy of lifelong study.

And not that it wasn’t worth changing it up sometimes, as he did now when he brought his hand into play, not to thrust his fingers inside her as he normally would, but to continue the pressure and rhythm on her clit while he licked inside her again, around and around and dipping within. Emma gasped with delight, her own hand pressing down on his to direct his motions, her hips still circling. Before long, she came with a delicious moan, hips jerking, legs trembling. He lapped at her slowly, bringing her down, until she released his hand and collapsed bonelessly onto the bed.

“Okay, you were right, I was wrong. I’m glad you did that.” Her mouth spread in a wide smile as she sat up on her elbows. “My turn?”

~*~

She’s a goddess, writhing above him, taking her pleasure for the second time that night, their first night together as husband and wife. Her thighs are splayed wide, her hand slipping down and caressing herself as she rises and falls on his cock, her head thrown back in ecstasy. 

“My wife. You’re so beautiful,” he mutters, watching her and holding his own release off. Sparks of pleasure radiate from where she is riding him, from the slick joining of their bodies. He gasps and pants, his throat dry after so much heavy breathing. The room is redolent with their love-making, as it should be on such a night.

Eventually she tilts forward, needing the change in the angle and the focused grind of her pelvic bone down on him rather than the manual stimulation. He can see the moment that she has her orgasm within reach, as her hips speed up in their rolling, undulating waves and her eyes clamp shut. 

“That’s it, darling. That’s it. Just like that,” he says, and he’s so close he can almost taste it. Couldn’t stop now if he tried. Couldn’t stop now if the whole town burst in on them, demanding their attention.

His name spills from her lips in a broken moan, and the world becomes nothing but love and white, hot pleasure.

~*~

One of the many terrible things about the Underworld, and there were many terrible things, was the surreality of the place. Despite its appearance as some twisted reflection of Storybrooke, at least to him (and he did wonder about that -- did everyone in the Underworld perceive a different place? Was it Storybrooke for him because he had died there? Or because his love was anchored there?), it was a hollow version to be sure. Colors were muted, sounds carried in odd ways, and food tasted like ash in his mouth. 

He didn’t think about the impact on his sense of smell until he kissed Emma.

Even her mouth was sort of… blank to him. He could recall what her mouth tasted like with perfect clarity, could recall every nuance of the way she smelled, so he felt the lack of all of it keenly. Still, he found comfort in her arms, in the press of their mouths together, even if it wasn’t as it had been when he was alive. He knew it pointed to the _wrongness_ of this place, and to the fact that Emma didn’t belong down here with him. But she wanted to save him, and by all the gods he wanted to let her, even if he didn’t deserve it.

Later, they stood in the graveyard, and he watched Emma’s heart break as she realized that she could not split her heart to save him. (And what an undeserved miracle she was, that she would be willing to do such a thing for _him_.) Rain was falling around them, muted rain that didn’t smell the way rain was supposed to smell, soaked into his clothes and dampened his hair but didn’t feel the way rain was supposed to feel. Killian pressed his nose against Emma’s head, brushing against the wool of one of her ever-present beanies, and tried in vain to find solace in breathing her in. There was no solace to be found. 

Perhaps, he realized for the first time, it was not the Underworld itself that had robbed him of his senses -- it was death. This wasn’t, after all, his body. His body was above somewhere, rotting under the ground. Suddenly he would have given anything, paid any price, for just one more minute to be with Emma properly, sight and taste and scent and sound and touch. 

~*~

She giggles as they collapse next to each other, skin buzzing electric with their impressively simultaneous orgasms. He rolls into her, pulling her close and burying his nose in the crook of her neck, which makes her giggle more.

“You’re always smelling me,” she says, a complaint that isn’t really a complaint.

“That’s because I love the way you smell.”

She hums happily, her arm wrapping around him and squeezing. “You know, I heard on the radio once that there was some kind of scientific study that showed that couples who are compatible like the way the other person smells. Like, they’re chemically compatible or something. I don’t remember how it worked exactly.”

He leans away and blinks at her. “You’re kidding.” She shakes her head. “Huh. Cordelia was right.”

Emma wrinkles her nose. “Who’s Cordelia?”

“A prostitute I knew many years ago.”

Eyes widening, Emma pokes him in the ribs. “If there’s a list of things not to bring up on your wedding night, prostitutes you’ve known is probably on the list.”

“Sorry, love.”

Emma snuggles into his chest; not really bothered, he is relieved to see. “I love the way you smell too,” she says.

He buries his own nose in the hair on top of her head, closes his eyes, and breathes.


End file.
